


The Vampire Claquesous

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood Drinking, M/M, ToT: Chocolate Box, ToT: Monster Mash, UST, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:19:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8358844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Javert's heart was pounding in his chest. Almost, he could still hear that voice whisper to him in his mind, that soft stay that pulled at him with a force stronger by far than anything else he had ever felt.But it was not real. It could not be real. He was alone, and there was nothing in the darkness beside him but an old, cruel vampire.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/gifts).



> Thank you to Miss M for all your beta help! <3

All of Père-Lachaise was shrouded in mist. A swollen moon filled the sky, bloated and sickly pale, illuminating gravestones that stretched out before Javert until the thick wall of mist swallowed them once more. 

Sound did not carry. The light of the lamp Javert had brought could not pierce the unnatural veil of white.

When he turned, the lamp held high in his left hand, the gun in his right, from the corner of his eye he saw a shadow shift. With a silent snarl, he turned back, thrusting the lamp forward—and the shadow he had seen had frozen, the mist drawing back to reveal another statue looming above a grave.

Javert bared his teeth. Mist and shadows, demons and the light of the full moon did not scare him. For how long had he hunted such creatures? No, he was not afraid. And yet, he was frustrated. He had trailed Claquesous for too long; tonight the man would not slip away, that master of shadows who in his wake left behind a trail of pale corpses, drained of all blood.

Javert's colleagues had long whispered about the vampire's supernatural abilities. Rumors abounded, some calling him a devil sprung from Hell itself, some swearing that they had seen him fly away in a flock of red-eyed bats, though they had him driven into a corner, some avowing that they had already clasped him in irons only to find the shackles empty a second later.

Always, these whispers would hush when Javert entered the room, for he was not a man given to superstition. Claquesous had a preference for theatricals; well, that did not make the vampire a demon. Javert—who had handled too many similar cases to be taken in by Claquesous' feats of escape—was quite certain that hidden behind the man's mask was an ordinary blood-sucker, and nothing more.

A cloud drifted in front of the moon. A strange and mournful noise arose somewhere in the distance: a cross between a lamenting moan and a cat’s howl.

Javert thrust his lamp at another grave, pausing for a moment to read the inscription.

The name was half withered and he could not quite make it out, but the simpleness of the gravestone gave him pause. When had he wandered into the poorer part of the cemetery? Had he become lost in the mist? Impossible.

Javert straightened, raising the lamp once more as he stared down the fog that surrounded him. Was Claquesous thinking to play a game with him, as though Javert was one of those fools at the prefecture who trembled when they opened a grave?

Javert's lips pulled back as he fixed the formless mist with a grim stare. “You cannot escape,” Javert said to the wafting sheets of white. “Let's cease these games. Come now, Claquesous, do you think I don't know you?”

Somewhere before him, a near voiceless sound of rage arose, as though something cold and dead had forced airless lungs to do its bidding. The sound quavered in the air, then was swallowed again by the billowing whiteness that veiled the graves.

Pleased, Javert strode forward into the mist. Dark shadows seemed to rear and jump at him, but he raised his lantern, and in the light, the horrors of Père-Lachaise were revealed as no more than the statues that held vigil over old graves.

Every now and then, Javert paused to examine inscriptions. He seemed to have left behind the splendor of the tombs of the rich. The graves were simpler and unadorned; Claquesous, the skilled old blood-sucker, had indeed attempted to draw him further into his domain.

Or draw Javert away, perhaps, so that Claquesous could make his escape into darkness once more.

Javert smiled, his face grim. He would not let him escape today. And if that meant that he had to allow himself to be drawn into the heart of the vampire's game, so be it. Javert was not afraid. He had a gun in his hand and the armor of righteousness.

One by one, the eerie sounds he had heard now and then died away as he proceeded. No more mournful sighs, no more thin, ghostly wails—had Claquesous intended to frighten him away, it seemed he had given up on that.

Javert's smile widened. The gun was pleasantly heavy in his hand. Let them see if the vampire would still melt back into the shadows once he had a silver bullet in his heart!

It was perfectly silent now. There was nothing around him but wafting mist. With sudden shock Javert realized that he could no longer hear the sound of his own breathing.

He turned around, shining his lamp at the mist surrounding him. There were no gravestones to be seen, no statues or mausoleums. He was alone with the mist, alone with Claquesous, alone with only a gun in his hand...

There was a sudden, dry laughter in his head, reverberating inside his mind even as he turned around wildly once more, trying to make out the source.

There was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the mist that had swallowed him until all the world had died away and Javert was lost in a river of white.

Gritting his teeth, he blocked out the laughter and strode forward, his back straight and his lamp held high. The mist trailed over his arms as he strode into it, little wisps drifting across his limbs like caressing fingers that were trying to clutch at him, trying to draw him into a loving, deadly embrace, whispering _stay_ in a voice that made him shudder and move forward with more despair than determination.

He could not say how long he had pushed onward. He stopped when his feet hit something. He was panting, out of breath although he could not remember running. When he raised his lamp once more, he saw that he had stumbled across another grave in the darkness.

Javert's heart was pounding in his chest. Almost, he could still hear that voice whisper to him in his mind, that soft _stay_ that pulled at him with a force stronger by far than anything else he had ever felt.

But it was not real. It could not be real. He was alone, and there was nothing in the darkness beside him but an old, cruel vampire.

Slowly, he shone his light at the grave that had halted his flight.

It was unmarked.

Javert frowned, but even when he drew his fingers across the stone, he could find no trace of name or date. Then something caught his eye.

He leaned closer, the lamp tilted so that the rectangle of light fell onto the spot where now, he could make out some writing.

It had not been chiseled into the stone. Instead, someone had used a pen to leave an inscription on the slab of rock.

_He is asleep. Though his mettle was sorely tried,_  
_He lived, and when he lost his angel, died._  
_It happened calmly, on its own,_  
_The way night comes when day is done._

The words gave him pause. He could not say what they meant. A mourning relative must have left a final message on a beloved's grave, that much was obvious. And that was well—surely there was no more to it than that. He was in a graveyard, after all. No, there was nothing supernatural at all about such a sight.

Again he looked at the letters, his brow furrowed. He started as he beheld his hand resting on the stone once more, a finger following the line of the mournful poem. He could not remember reaching out.

What had drawn him to this grave? Javert tried to look up, but he could not look away from the verses. Inside his chest, something seemed to open, a long-forgotten wound tearing open, and suddenly, darkness was rushing in like water through a bursting dam.

He was drowning. He could not breathe. A cold emptiness constricted around his chest—and still he was looking at the lines, those words that were so unfamiliar and yet were now crushing him with an inexplicable horror that weighed heavier than any of Claquesous' terrors.

There was a sound now, a loud, panicked _thud, thud, thud_ that gained in volume until it drowned out all of his senses. There was nothing but that booming roar that echoed through him as though his body had become a hollow bell ringing with a force he had nothing to set against, the lamp dropping from his weakening arm, his eyes unable to focus on the inscription...

Then teeth pressing against his neck.

In the split-second that remained to Javert before they would pierce even the reinforced leather of his stock, awareness rushed back in with the prickling of needles. Instinct alone now gave him the strength to turn and yank himself away from the grasp of Claquesous, who had hovered behind him.

He had no more than a heartbeat to regain his bearings; then, with a sound of rage, Claquesous was upon him once more.

Javert still had the gun in his hand. The heaviness of the iron was comforting, and his hand did not waver. He aimed it straight at Claquesous' chest. Then he pulled the trigger, just as Claquesous' mouth opened wide in a fearsome grin to show off fangs long and sharp.

The gun went off. The loud boom cut through the silence. 

Claquesous was no longer where he had stood a moment before.

Javert turned, panic pounding in his chest. From the corner of his eye, once more he saw a shadow jump out at him. He raised his hand; he fired—but again Claquesous seemed to have vanished before the bullet could hit him.

Panting with frustration, Javert turned once more. The prickling at the back of his neck was his only warning —and there he was, Claquesous coming towards him, the mask glinting in the light of the lamp, fangs bared.

Javert pulled the trigger—but this time, no shot rang out.

The vampire's cruel smile widened. Where before he had hurled himself at Javert, now he slowed as if to enjoy his prey's rising panic.

With a curse, Javert pulled the trigger again—nothing.

Claquesous slid another step forward. His heartbeat thundering in his ears, Javert stood his ground, his gun still raised. Now it brushed against Claquesous' chest. The vampire's lips parted to release a soft, mocking laugh. 

There was a small bottle of holy water in Javert's pocket. It would not harm a vampire as strong as Claquesous—but surely it would slow him down for long enough that Javert could make his escape.

But he could not act too fast. It was his last chance to escape this night with his life. He had to let Claquesous get closer—closer, close enough to bite, perhaps. It was the only way.

“This has gone on for too long, don't you think?” Claquesous' breath was dry and dead on Javert's face.

Javert did not flinch as he stared the vampire down.

“Say goodbye, Javert,” Claquesous said, the words soft and mocking.

Javert looked at the fangs that came ever closer. He had to wait until they pierced the skin. He had to wait until the scent of his blood had Claquesous entranced, so that he would not notice how Javert reached into his pocket...

 _Wait,_ he told himself, everything within him tense with abhorrence at the vampire's lifeless breath ghosting across his skin.

 _Wait._ Claquesous' lips were rough and dry like bark as they brushed his jugular.

 _Wait._ The fangs were sharp against his skin. Then there was a sudden, piercing sensation that burned, as though the fangs had penetrated his very soul.

He slid his hand into his pocket, his fingers suddenly too weak to clutch the small bottle as the throbbing of his pulse turned into a terrifying roar.

Suddenly, a howl arose. It was an ululating sound of warning, of a fierce animal rage and a supernatural power that made Javert tremble despite the vampire's grasp on him.

 _Werewolf._ A vampire's mortal enemy.

With a hiss, Claquesous released him.

Javert swayed where he stood, every pulse of his heart causing the wounds Claquesous' fangs had left to burn as though poison was biting at his skin.

The small bottle was in his hand now, but his fingers had gone numb. He could not lift the phial as much as he tried. It was as if the glass had suddenly turned to lead.

Another howl arose. This time the sound was much closer. Claquesous hissed again—and then the veil of mist pulled back, and from it a wolf came striding forward.

It was no ordinary wolf. The beast was twice as large as a normal animal. Its fur was gleaming silver, its muzzle white. It took step after step with heavy deliberation, its golden eyes trained on Claquesous.

_Werewolf._

Claquesous took a step forward, then hesitated when the werewolf met him step for step, its mouth opening to reveal fangs just as menacing as those of the vampire.

For one long, tense moment, vampire and werewolf stared at each other.

His fingers trembling, Javert managed to lift the phial. The werewolf's jaws parted for a deep growl of warning, and Javert, his heartbeat still loud as a drum in his ears, managed to pull out the stopper and splash the water on Claquesous.

Most of the holy water hit the vampire's coat, but some of it hit his neck and the side of his face. The reaction was instantaneous. The vampire screamed, a shrill, earsplitting sound of agonized fury. Where the water had hit, smoke rose up and skin melted away, red patches spreading.

The wolf snarled, saliva dripping from his fangs, hackles raised as he advanced further—and then Claquesous was gone, melting back into the shadows with a hiss of impotent fury.

Javert laughed voicelessly as the werewolf's head turned to stare at him.

Then Javert's legs gave out and he toppled to the ground. His neck was burning, the wounds Claquesous' fangs had left throbbing with heat. Javert felt dizzy. He could not move, not even when the wolf came trotting towards him. A cold nose nudged at his chin, and Javert was still laughing with silent frustration when the wolf made him tilt his head and bare his throat.

Hot breath ghosted across his skin. Then the beast's tongue licked slowly, deliberately across the puncture wounds, again and again.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert said hoarsely, “if you bite me I will put a collar on you and lock you into a cage.”

The werewolf lifted his head, golden eyes laughing at him. The pink tongue came lolling out to lick his lips.

Then, Valjean's form shimmered, and a heartbeat later, a heavy and very much naked man was resting on him, his hair shining silver in the light of the moon.

“He bit you,” Valjean murmured, as if that was explanation enough, and then leaned forward once more to deliberately fasten his mouth over Javert's neck and suck.

Javert groaned, resisting the sudden urge to buck against Valjean.

Werewolf saliva might be an antidote to the vampire's bite, but it did not change the fact that by all rights, he should arrest this werewolf for prowling a cemetery in the light of the full moon.

“Maybe I'll keep you muzzled next month,” Javert said, trying to sound annoyed even though he was feeling strangely lightheaded and heavy,

Valjean's lips moved gently against his skin. Again the rushing, roaring sound grew louder and louder until it threatened to overwhelm him. Panting, Javert clung to Valjean's bare shoulders, digging his nails into his skin as he refused to allow himself to be pulled under—and then Valjean lifted his head and turned aside to spit out the blood.

When he turned back, his lips were still red, and Javert became suddenly aware of the aching throb at his groin.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.

Valjean raised his arm to wipe his lips.

“I've tasted worse,” he said. “In any case, I think I drew it all out. You'll be safe.”

Then he bent down once more to deliberately, carefully lick over the throbbing wounds, and Javert groaned and had to fight the urge to take himself in hand.

“What a spectacle you've made of this,” he said testily, choosing to push Jean Valjean off him. “A werewolf, not even registered with the police, and out in the full moon on a cemetery! By all rights I should take you in and lock you into a cell, and that's quite regardless of your past; really, Jean Valjean, a man your age should know better than to—”

“I felt that you were in danger,” Valjean said quietly, looking at him with those sad, deep eyes that still had not lost their golden hue. They would not, as long as the full moon was in the sky. “How could I stay away? You know I could not.”

“Always ready to be martyred,” Javert muttered, then slowly pushed himself up. His legs were still weak, but he could stand. “Given that this is Père-Lachaise, and it is the full moon, there will be unlicensed hunters around—eager for the bounty of a werewolf fur. And I'm in no mood to deal with that, especially now that Claquesous has escaped again.”

“No one is here,” Valjean said. He stood as well, moving without shame although he was still completely naked, too much wolf in him this night.

It was rare to see the powerful body bared with such innocence. Wisps of mist were streaming past broad shoulders and strong arms. The muscles of Valjean's stomach shifted and flexed with every breath, the shaft between his legs thick and hard, an animal red that made Javert's stomach contract with need.

Instead, he swallowed and forced himself to turn away from the tempting sight.

“Here's a riddle for you.” Javert pointed at the mist in front of them. “An unmarked grave with a poem. I wonder if Claquesous had planned—”

He fell silent. The mist had pulled away again, and there, where mere minutes ago he had knelt and run his hands over the unmarked gravestone, now a patch of grass-covered earth was revealed.

There was no grave. This corner of Père-Lachaise seemed to be deserted; when he turned his head, he saw a large yew-tree appear from the mist.

But there was no stone, and no inscription.

Javert shuddered, staring at the earth before him. Had it been one of Claquesous' tricks? But the terror he had felt had cut deeper than simple vampire glamour. Whatever it had been he had seen, it had felt real. For some reason, the words had jumped out at him with a terrible familiarity, like a reminder of something which should never have been forgotten.

“Javert?” Valjean's hand came to rest uncertainly on his shoulder. “Is everything well?”

With a final shake of his head, Javert drew himself away from the unsettling spot.

“It's nothing. Claquesous' cursed bite was playing tricks on me.”

Then he turned, nearly blushing when he found himself faced with Valjean's nakedness—and the fact that he was just as erect as moments before.

“Good God, what is wrong with you? Change back already!” he snapped. “You're indecent. And then run back home. I'm not walking home with a werewolf by my side. It’s bad enough you came out tonight at all! Have we not talked about this before?”

It was difficult to be angry with Jean Valjean, even though the man was a werewolf; it was more difficult to stay angry with him when faced with the powerful body in all its splendor, the animal instinct so strong this night that there was no shame in Valjean even for the way his body had roused with need for Javert.

Javert took a deep breath, clasping his hand over the bite at his neck. His skin was still damp from Valjean’s saliva. A shudder ran through him as he remember the rasp of Valjean’s tongue and the weight of the strong body.

How tempting it had been to close his eyes and abandon himself to Valjean’s touch. But Javert could not afford to forget who they were, and _where_ they were. Jean Valjean, usually so careful and private, was moonstruck, barely able to keep the wolf’s instincts under control. And while those instincts had saved Javert’s life today, they might yet cost Valjean’s, should someone see him here.

“But you're coming home?” Valjean asked quietly, and there was just enough longing in his voice that Javert's own prick gave an insistent throb.

“Yes, I'm coming back,” he said irritably, still annoyed by the reckless way Valjean had exposed himself to danger. “Run straight home. Stay inside the garden if you have to be outside. And for God's sake, don't let anyone see you.”

Valjean's eyes lit up, kindling more heat in Javert's stomach, and then the man had turned wolf once more. Gently, the wolf's muzzle pressed against his knee. A moment later, with a soft huff, the wolf was off, vanishing into the mist with quick strides.

Javert grimaced and pressed a hand to where his prick was pushing demandingly against his trousers, then pulled it away a moment later. What had he come to? Abusing himself at night on a cemetery, was that truly what he had become? What would his superiors say if they knew that he was consorting with werewolves on cemeteries, or worse, keeping the existence of that werewolf a secret from the state?

“There's a difference between being in thrall to a werewolf and... this,” he told himself through clenched teeth. “If anything, he's in thrall to me.”

His cock was still aching. Somewhere in the distance, there was the eerie, mocking laughter of an animal. Javert narrowed his eyes, then shook his head and turned towards the graveyard's exit. Either way, he was not going to get his hands on Claquesous tonight. The vampire would have already fled once more, and quite possibly new rumors would spread tomorrow.

Let his colleagues make of that what they would. And if he could not subdue a vampire tonight, maybe he would have to make do with a werewolf instead.


End file.
